


the unspooling days

by eyres



Series: even unto the end of the age [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Comic Book Science, M/M, Old Age, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyres/pseuds/eyres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky had died 68 years ago. Steve has been waiting to join him ever since. But, when he's old and frail and the journey is almost done, Bucky comes home. </p><p>This is Steve's perspective of the events in <i> though you're many years away</i> and what happened next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the unspooling days

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make any sense unless you read _though you're many years away_. 
> 
> I never felt like the prologue to the first story was fleshed out enough - this is my attempt of rounding out some bits of that story.

Sometimes, Steve dreams of the days, before they had saved him:

It’s all watercolored blurs in his memory, everything dripping together. In the end, in those last weeks, the world had felt so faraway and unknowable. He had been helpless, just carried along from moment to moment, sick with the knowledge that his part was ending and the next part would continue on without him - that he could do nothing to keep going, nothing to help those he was leaving behind.

He remembers Loki on the roof and saving Natasha and knowing that this was the final act of his story. There had been years and years of struggling and trying to make himself matter, make his tiny slice of the world mean something, make Bucky (gone too soon but always always in his heart) proud. For decades, death had been the welcomed victory at the end of a long battle. Death had meant closing his eyes, sleeping, and then waking up to Bucky.

It was a well loved dream: the sun would be shining and there would be blue sky for miles and he air would be warm and fresh and his chest would be light. Bucky would smile. "Welcome home," he would say. And they never would be parted again. 

When he had first gotten the news that Bucky had died from the shiny booted men (in hats and gloves with closed faces and quiet eyes) standing on the Barnes doorstep, the world had felt like it had cracked in two. They had said things like “courageous” and all the newspapers had said “Our fallen son” and “Hero to the end” and Steve had been left with a dozen sketches, the coat Bucky had left behind, and enlistment photo that Becca had pushed into his hands. 

There had been a state funeral. Steve had gone, sat behind the Barnes family. The newspapers had listed him as a “friend of the family” in the official photographs because no one wanted to know that Bucky had been his world - and he had been Bucky’s. No one had interviewed him. No one had asked him if he was okay.

He had woken from nightmares in those first weeks after, Bucky dying slowly in the ice, Bucky injured and alone in a strange lands, calling for Steve until he had no voice left. When he couldn’t stand just waiting anymore and the war had drawn to a close, Steve had gone to Howard Stark. And his life had begun again.

He remembers the beginning fondly, wide, bright strokes of color in his memory. Peggy with her red mouth and Howard with his sharp eyes. Steve had felt useful for the first time in his life, felt important to someone beside Bucky. He had felt like belonged somewhere for the first time since Bucky had shipped off to Europe. 

'I’m doing him proud,' he had thought to himself, told himself, promised himself. ‘This is what he would’ve wanted for me. This is his legacy living on in me.’ Sometimes, he would close his eyes and pretend he could feel Bucky pressed just behind him, holding him up and bolstering him forward. But he never really felt him. He had been alone.

Someday, he had promised the Atlantic ocean on cold days, ice in the Hudson. Someday, I’ll be joining you. Wait for me. Wherever you are, please wait for me.

The world had wound on and Steve kept ticking. While Peggy and Howard were out on the field with airplanes and guns and danger, he had been in safe offices, ensconced behind desks and typewriters. The world had been burning back then, burning with the fever of changes too fast to comprehend, society rolling along with more wars and more treaties and more money and more technology.

There had been late nights with Peggy, drinking whiskey until his throat burned, driving away the memories that had sunk their claws so deep. And, when he couldn't bear to listen to the radio shows or to the glowing half true biographies, he started drawing. 

When the moon landing happened, Steve remembers sitting in his office, fingers pressed together until his knuckles turned white and his eyes burned. “The future,” he had murmured, staring at the wide expanse of space. “The future is here.” And Bucky is not.

He was proud of his life. As his twilight years had drawn near, he had been proud of his accomplishments and proud of his friends. Proud of the world. When he had gotten sick, it had felt like right ending, the right time. Tony had been a child, angry and hurt, but Steve had known he would be okay - that Steve had given him all he could.

Howard had been furious. Steve remembers laying in the hospital bed and Howard had flown back from god knows where and had screamed, screamed at the doctors and nurses and Steve and Tony and god - outraged at the universe for the inevitability of life. 

Steve had tried to calm him down but Howard had stormed out. Steve had not seen him again (he’d said his goodbyes to Tony and Peggy, held their hands and made them promise to be brave, to love each other) until he was waking up on a cold table with the feeling of ice in his veins and Howard had been staring down at him, jaw locked and eyes hard. 

“You are not allowed to leave yet,” he had snapped. “I won’t let you.”

“Howard,” Steve had said, then drew in a breath, surprised when it came easily with no pain. “What did you do?”

Howard had glared at him. “I know you want to see him. I know. But we need you. I need you. So you don’t get to die. He can wait awhile longer.”

Steve had stared at him, felt his heart beating a steady rhythm for what felt like the first time in his entire life. “You don’t get to play god," he had said, quiet. 

Howard had died less than five years later. Because death always comes.

Steve had been healthier, in those 10 years and the 10 that followed, then he had ever been in his entire life. He had been old, white haired and gnarled, but his lungs filled and his joints were limber and his muscles grew strong. “What did you do?” Steve would often ask the specter of Howard. “What did you do.”

He had tried to use the newfound strength. He fought for Bucky's legacy. He fought for Natasha. And he watched the fruits of his labor and just felt empty that Bucky hadn't been there to share.

When finally the health had run out and his body, at last, began to wind down, Steve had been grateful. His rest was coming - finally his reward was here. He had hurt for the pain he would cause his friends, all so young and fresh and lovely in their passion, but knew it was time. The universe wasn’t his anymore.

The way he felt inside finally matched his outside, frail and worn down and ready for the end.

The world started slipping, sand through his fingers. And he was okay. He was okay with the way his mind felt like slow molasses and the way his fingers shook and his lungs hurt and sometimes his very body felt like lead around him - it meant he was almost done. He slept more, dreamed of Bucky, and woke up each day to smile at his friends, give them as much as he could be for his rest. 

And then, Bucky.

Tony had told him. He had come into his room, sat down on the chair next to him, and his face had been so grave that Steve had felt a fission of panic in his insides. His breath had wheezed and Tony had squeezed his hand and said, “okay, so, don’t get upset. But they found Bucky’s plane.”

Tears had come instantly, heart pounding furiously, and he had wheezed into the the oxygen cannula. He had thought, for the moment between revelations, that this was right. He would be laid to rest with Bucky’s body next to his and this was right. This was the way it was always meant to be. 

And then. 

“He’s alive. The serum preserved him. He's okay. He’s alive, Steve.” Tony had gripped his hand and leaned close. “He’s back. He’s waiting in the next room, if you want to…”

Steve was nodding, face feeling hot and chest feeling tight. “Really?” His heart was pounding and he knew he was shaking all over. Everything was numb and bright and loud, nothing sinking in. 

“Really.”

Steve had looked down then, at his gnarled hands, had seen the proof of the years in his skin and his bones - years spent in a world without Bucky etched into the very fabric of his being. Tony had helped him blow his nose and wash his face and straightened his nightshirt and comb his hair. His fingers never stopped shaking though. 

Bucky had come. Bucky, young and perfect, crystallized and priceless in Steve's memory. He had wept and kissed Steve's fingers and leaned close like he had come finally come home after a long winter. Steve had felt his heart being remade and broken all over again. He had leaned close and spoken in the voice that Steve had missed, long remembered, yet somehow had forgotten the inflection. 

It was all much to believe. It was a dream, a fantasy created by a too old and too withered mind. But no.

Steve had felt young, swept up in blue eyes and unmarred skin and thick hair - had forgotten that his story was almost completed and that the world was supposed to carry on without him because his rest was his reward. Everything had felt new, even as he had been old. 

Suddenly, the days were bright again. Suddenly, he had felt that spark that had been sputtering to nothing re-ignite. Bucky was always there. Bucky loved him. Bucky hadn’t left him. Bucky wouldn't leave him. Steve opened his eyes and did not think, another day closer. Instead, Steve was opening his eyes to that well loved dream. Bucky was there to press kisses to his forehead, to walk with, to eat with, to make him laugh. He had forgotten how Bucky made him laugh.

He went back to Stark Tower. Tony sent a big helicopter and Bucky clucked and fussed and Clint piloted and Natasha met them on the helipad and Steve felt all full inside - this was right. This team around him. Bucky had been the missing piece but now he was here.

And Steve, for a few days, had let himself forget: forget he was dying, forget he was weakening, forget that world was no longer his.

The reminder, when it came, had been harsh. 

Steve had woken up and known it was a bad day. The air was thin in his lungs and his stomach had turned at even the thought of tea. Bucky had fluttered around him, hands soothing and touching and Steve had just wanted to lay still and watch him. He felt emptied out, limbs heavy against the soft sheets. Tony came in, face lined and eyes wide. 

“You doing okay?” he had asked when Bucky had been trying to get a protein shake together. 

Steve sighed, felt the air puff past his lips. “Not dead yet.” he had said, ignoring the high wheeze on the underside of the words. “Tony.”

Tony had leaned close and his hand had clasped around Steve’s wrist. “What do you need? You know whatever it is…”

“I need you to take care of Buck, when it’s over. I know I have money. You need to…” He had broken off. It had felt practical and necessary - the last things he had needed to do. He was leaving the man he loved behind. He had been the man left behind. It was inevitable and painful but he had to do anything he could to make it easier. “Please,” he finished. 

Tony had nodded and Bucky had returned. They didn't speak of it again. 

And the days had dragged on. He had hated how much he had slept. Hated that even when he was awake, things were too soft and too fast and too far away for him to follow. He hated the doctors with their cold hands - the way they would take Bucky into the hallway and talk to him where he couldn’t hear - hate that Bucky would come back, wan and quiet.

He woke up one night, late and barely conscious. The only light had been from the hallway but Steve could still sense Bucky's warm presence. He had drifted for a moment, and then heard a thick breath followed by something shaky and broken. 

Steve had lain in the dark, listening to Bucky cry, and had felt himself shatter too. 

After that, he had tried to be brave, to talk glibly of the after: after he died, after he went away, after Bucky was alone. Bucky would be okay, he told himself and Bucky. He kept his mind busy. Tony brought him a tablet and he spent his time poking at it, making lists. He wouldn't be there. But Bucky would and Steve had to make sure he had something to live for. 

Some days, when it wasn't that hard to breathe and his limbs felt less like broken rubber bands, Bucky would wrap him in blankets and take him to the roof. They'd overlook the whole city, from skyline to skyline and Bucky's hand would be tucked firmly in his. 

Bucky had proposed. Once the same day he had come back, once the next day when Steve had woken to see him watching, and once back at the tower. Steve had said no, each time, despite the way it hurt his heart. Bucky didn't need that added burden on everything else. This had all been enough. 

Sometimes he had laid in bed and watched the rest of his life unspool. He imagined he could have months, maybe a year. It was selfish, lingering on and keeping Bucky close. But he couldn't help it. A year, maybe, he told himself, of being so near to Bucky that he could reach for his hand any time. That they could lay in bed and exchange soft kisses, back and forth and back and forth. That a summer could come and Steve could watch the days get long with Bucky next to him. He could celebrate his birthday with Bucky. And Halloween and Thanksgiving and maybe even Christmas. There had been so much to look forward to. 

After Loki, Steve had watched those dreams slip away. He had lain in his bed, too weak to lift his head or his hand and the world feeling far away and dark, and had known that there would be no birthday. 

The doctors were there first. He had blinked at them, unprotesting as they prodded and turned him. And then he had closed his eyes and then Bucky had been there. 

"Hi," he had said, scooting close. "What were you thinking, huh?"

Steve had barely even remembered the rooftop. "Wanted to be a hero," he had whispered. 

The days had bled together. Bucky was there. And Steve, increasingly, was not. 

He had only caught parts of conversations then. Natasha's warm voice and Sam's firm hand and Bucky's gentle touch and Tony's jittering. They all looked at him with big eyes and he looked back and thought that all the words that were left had been said. 

Bucky had never been far in those days. He knew before anyone else if Steve was in pain, if something was pinching or pulling or aching. When Steve refused the feeding tube, Bucky had just nodded, even as he curled close like he could protect Steve from the world. It had been time. 

The last time he had opened his eyes in that frail body, Bucky had been so close, glowing in the lamplight like an angel. All Steve could see were blue eyes.

With death so near, Steve had felt the emotions come up. Fear and loss and hope and desperation and regret and longing. But Bucky had soothed him and murmured softly and when Steve had felt a heavy sleep come for him, he had gone quietly, relaxed at least, in those last moments. 

Now, weeks later, he tells Bucky (everyone), he doesn't remember the procedure. He says he remembers falling asleep with Bucky holding his hand and waking up with Bucky hovering over him. It's a little lie, he tells himself. 

They don't need to know that he woke up with his blood burning through his veins and his bones being ground to dust and then reformed. He had woken up and thought he was in hell. Thought that all his efforts had been for nothing and he was in hell and he would never see Bucky again because Bucky was good and pure and Bucky would go to heaven without him. It had all gone dark and quiet after what felt like ages of pain. And that's when he had woken up. 

But that was then.

Steve Rogers stands up and his limbs are loose and his shoulders are strong. He's wearing a suit and it's tailored perfectly down his waist and the bow tie is snug against his neck. 

"Ready?" Sam says and Steve turns to look at Bucky. 

He still looks exactly like Steve's memory, young and perfect. Now, he is polished and his face is relaxed, gentle with happiness. 

"Always ready," he answers. His hand locks around Steve's. "This has been a long time coming."

Steve squeezes his fingers and let's him lead them out the doors and down the aisle of the church. There's a minister up ahead with Tony and Natasha and his knees don't shake at all. His heart doesn't skip. His fingers don't tremble. The oxygen comes easily. The years of his life spread before him, no longer measured in days or hours or minutes or breaths. 

Steve would've waited, he thinks, as they stop in front of the alter and Bucky looks at him with years of love. He would've waited two lifetimes. Ten lifetimes. Forever. He would do it all again. Just for this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed - I plan to hopefully add a few more stories to this universe. We'll see how the muse moves.


End file.
